


The Innkeeper

by Aisling (river_of_hope)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, PWP without Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_of_hope/pseuds/Aisling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have lived in this inn near Bree since you were a child: first as the daughter of an innkeeper, then the wife of one, then as the innkeeper yourself since your man was taken, much too young, by a fever that raced through the village. Since then your bed has been your own - wide, soft, and comfortable, and lonely sometimes, although you would never admit it. </p>
<p>The dwarf  (a prince, some said, and although you've always ignored rumors, you rather fancied this one; so you let it flourish in the privacy of your head and sometimes within the quiet kingdom of your lonely bed) had been visiting your inn for several seasons on his way to or from his home. Over the years you became acquaintances, then friends, and then - something more. </p>
<p>(Very short - I would call it a PWP but it's a little short on the P as well as the P. Mostly just sweet, fluffy and a little angsty. Although calling Thorin fluffy feels wrong on So Many Levels.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Innkeeper

The roughly carved wooden door creaks protestingly on its leather hinge as it opens, and despite your best intentions, your head swings to look at the newcomer. You know it is too early in the season for him, you know he will not be here, and yet… you hope, and you look; and each time you do, your heart performs a mad skipping flutter in your chest that is unworthy of a woman grown (and a woman of property, at that). You laugh ruefully at yourself and continue with your tasks. 

 

You have lived in this inn near Bree since you were a child: first as the daughter of an innkeeper, then the wife of one, then as the innkeeper yourself since your man was taken, much too young, by a fever that raced through the village. 

 

Since then your bed has been your own - wide, soft, and comfortable, and lonely sometimes, although you would never admit it. 

 

The dwarf  (a prince, some said, and although you've always ignored rumors, you rather fancied this one; so you let it flourish in the privacy of your head and sometimes within the quiet kingdom of your lonely bed) had been visiting your inn for several seasons on his way to or from his home. Over the years you became acquaintances, then friends, and then - something more. 

 

One evening after the other patrons had finished their ales and stumbled home or upstairs to their weary beds, you and Your Prince had sat wakeful, talking and sipping by the fire: he on an ale, and you on your favorite wine. You had chatted so long and so comfortably that the silences had thickened, ripened, become slow and sweet and golden, like honey; had sat silent and aware so long that your heart had, inexplicably, begun to pound.

 

Eventually, in one of these thick, palpable silences, he had turned his head slightly to look at your hand where it lay forgotten on the table, and his hand - his calloused, scarred, beautiful craftsman's hand - had lifted and moved, with the precise grace of the swordsman or the dancer, to touch your own. In a question, a caress, a possession. Your heart in your throat, you turned to look at him and now, oh, now - now he was looking at you. Meeting his eyes with yours was somehow one of the most difficult things you'd ever done as you thought of all the shameful fantasies you'd woven while touching yourself in your room, calling his name to the cobwebs in the rafters... afraid he would see this in your eyes, but more afraid to let the moment pass. 

 

You flipped your sensitive palm up to show surrender to his desire, your eyes locked with his, and as his hand took yours, you noticed that his was trembling. You thought briefly of this and wondered why, and then you could not possibly have cared less, for he was standing and you were also, and you were hot against each other. Who had started the move you knew not and cared less, and you found that you matched at hip and breast and thigh and what was between, oh, yes, between... 

 

His hand on your face was surprisingly tender as he cupped your cheek, positioning you for his kiss -- his beard was soft and, though his breath was ale-scented, it was your best ale, and at the moment you *loved* ale because you were sipping it like nectar from his soft, gentle lips and sweetly probing tongue. His other hand slipped down your spine, mapping the curves and hollows as he pressed you intimately against him, and you felt again the quiver (but not just in him this time, it was also in you), and his kisses were no longer soft but hot and needy and open and ah, so were you. 

 

What happened after (and many times during later visits) in the wide secrecy of your bed, where you had never taken a customer before and have never taken another since, has been a matter for blushes and secret smiles and a great deal of private day dreaming in the quiet hours between his visits. 

 

In the morning, you woke to his hands and mouth playing gently but insistently across your skin as the sun warmed the room to a pale glow around you both... you were happy to turn in his arms and welcome him again - slumbrous eyes and sweet mouth and strong agile body. After, you both rose regretfully, shivering in the cold, and dressed quietly though not awkwardly in the slanting sunlight. Then with a last private smile, you exited into the world of the day, of ale and beds that needed airing and secrets that must be kept,  and of a world full of rough men who could not awaken your soul with a glance from speaking eyes.

 

Since that day you have always waited with impatience for the end of winter because it means that soon, travelers will begin plying the roads. Soon, Your Prince will be turning his thoughts and feet to the road, and  possibly your tavern door will swing wide to reveal his familiar face and tender, deep blue eyes. 

 

Now it is spring, and the birds are singing outside in the same cadence as your heart. The creek that runs nearby is nigh overflowing its banks, the trees have budded and are beginning to leaf, and you have begun watching the door for him. Waiting for the outline of his broad shoulders against the evening's blush. Waiting for the soft press of his beard into your neck. Waiting for the feel of the curve of his back against your palms as he labors above you in the silent, joyous sanctuary of your bed. 

 

You know there will be a year when he does not come; there may be a wife, someday, and a family. Or (you quickly make a warding sign to avert danger) things happen to men on the roads. Things happen to men in general. They... go. You swallow a shudder at the thought of your strong-limbed, callow husband, gone so long now that you cannot remember his face. But you cannot imagine, refuse to consider, something happening to the bright light of your days.

 

Your Prince. 

 

And as you turn firmly back to washing crockery, you are thankful, so thankful, for another spring.


End file.
